The Fallen: The Fallen 1; The Fallen 2; The Fallen 3 by Thomas E. Sniegoski

Author:Thomas E. Sniegoski [Sniegoski, Thomas E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Teen & Young Adult, Love & Romance, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Romance, Paranormal & Fantasy, Paranormal & Urban
Amazon: B008QYIG80
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2012-11-27T08:00:00+00:00

Bootiful.

The word hit him like one of Lehash’s flaming bullets, and Aaron lowered his weapon in shock.

“What did you say?” he asked the scarlet-garbed warrior.

Again Malak giggled, that high-pitched titter that put his nerves on edge.

“What’s the matter, Nephilim?” he heard Verchiel ask with mock concern.

Aaron chanced a glance at the heavenly monster. He was standing before the bleachers, hands clasped behind his back, a throng of angel soldiers surrounding him. One of them had Vilma slung over its shoulder, as if she were nothing more than an afterthought.

“Has something plucked a chord of familiarity?”

Malak was suddenly before him, swinging the blade of his double-headed ax. Aaron sprang back from the vicious blade, studying his attacker’s movement, the single word still echoing dangerously in his head.

Bootiful.

The ax buried itself deep into the shiny, hardwood floor, but Malak quickly retrieved it, coming at him again. The warrior swung his weapon of war, and this time Aaron responded in kind, deflecting the ax with his sword of fire.

“Why did you say that word?” he hissed, launching his own assault against Malak.

The warrior giggled, childlike, as he ducked beneath the swipe of Aaron’s blade.

“Why did you say it?” he shouted frantically, an idea almost too horrible for him to comprehend beginning to form in his mind. His attack upon the Powers’ assassin grew wilder, driving Malak back across the gym.

Malak countered as fast as Aaron struck, blocking and avoiding the weapon of heavenly fire with ease.

Verchiel was laughing, a grating sound, like the cawing of some carrion bird.

Aaron hacked downward with all his might, but Malak stepped aside, bringing his armored foot down upon the blade, trapping it against the floor as he lashed out with his ax. Aaron felt the bite of the razor-sharp blade as it cut through the fabric of his shirt and the skin beneath. He jumped back, leaving his pinned sword to disperse in a flash. Slowly he lowered his hand to his stomach, then brought it up to his face. His fingertips were stained the color of his attacker’s armor.

The sight of his own blood and the unsettling sound of Verchiel’s laughter served only to inflame his rage. He felt the power of the Nephilim inside him and it coursed through his muscles—through the entire fiber of his being. If he were to survive this conflict, he had to trust the warrior’s nature he had inherited. He had to defeat this armored foe, but still he could not get past the implication of Verchiel’s words.

Has something plucked a chord of familiarity?

Malak came at him again, battle-ax at the ready, and Aaron sprang forward to meet the attack. He dove low, connecting with the warrior’s armor-plated legs, and they crashed to the floor in a thrashing pile. Malak held on to his ax and tried to use it to drive his opponent from atop him, but Aaron kept close, rendering the weapon useless. The power of the Nephilim shrieked a cry of battle, and Aaron found himself caught up in a wave of might that flooded his body, his every sense.

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